


Marble

by aBarlowRose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bedrooms, Childhood, Ficlet, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, M/M, One Shot, Short, Short One Shot, marble
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-23 01:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16609271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aBarlowRose/pseuds/aBarlowRose
Summary: Mycroft instigates a brief conversation.





	Marble

Mycroft liked to drop embarrassing facts about Sherlock, now that he and John had become so… _domestic_. At the first family Christmas dinner Sherlock and John were together, Mycroft had mentioned Sherlock’s only prior romantic relationship, and Sherlock had kicked him so hard under the table Mycroft had to excuse himself and miss the lava cake for dessert.  

The next time they all had a meal (and it was many months later, and only after John had persuaded Sherlock that he could handle Mycroft just fine, thank you), the elder brother had brought up the action man he broke when Sherlock was four, and how the little boy had cried for days before Mycroft was obliged to buy him another. This time, with a reassuring hand on Sherlock’s leg beneath the table, John had pointed out that he had been right, then, about those old resentments, and Sherlock smirked so pointedly at John that Mycroft bid a hasty goodbye, again missing dessert— for fear that the boyfriends might have something more than chocolate in mind.

This year, John did not feel like dealing with Mycroft any more than Sherlock, but Sherlock’s mother, Mrs. Holmes, had invited them all to her grand, empty house, and John insisted they could not refuse.  

The dinner is tolerable, if only because Mrs. Holmes is determined to make Mycroft pay for an indiscreet comment he made early in the evening, but John can feel Sherlock’s patience wearing thin as they finally start in on the tarts. When Mrs. Holmes begins to wax nostalgic after a third glass of sherry, Mycroft takes the opportunity to mention Sherlock’s marble collection and his particular fondness for one certain color.

Sherlock’s ears go red and he stands stiffly. He thanks his mother for the meal, grabs John’s arm, and marches him up the stairs to a room that must have been Sherlock’s as a child. It is filled with books and loose sheets of papers entirely covered in scrawls. There is a microscope on a desk and murky jars of who-knows-what against one wall. But Sherlock pulls John past all of these. He goes to the bed and sits John on it and kneels down and pulls out a trunk from beneath the skirt. He opens the combination locks quickly and surely and pulls out a small canvas bag from amidst the wreckage of a strange and lonely childhood.  

Sherlock looks at John nervously, and John can’t help but smile at the man who is always so confident, here kneeling on a bare floor, eyes wide and sweet and vulnerable. Sherlock looks away for a moment, digging his hand around in the bag, feeling until he hits a familiar shape, familiar heft and texture. He pulls out a marble as big as his thumb, and hands it to John, fingers brushing his palm. Then he turns and rests his back against the bed, next to John’s legs.

He lets John turn the marble in his hands, feeling its weight and holding it up to the light so that the dark, rich brown glows in the shafts of sun that fall in the room. After a while, John taps Sherlock’s shoulder and hands the marble back. He breathes deeply and waits.

Sherlock stares at the wall ahead of him.

“Were— _her_ —eyes that color?” John finally asks, trying not to let pain or jealousy creep into his voice. Sherlock has only spoken twice about the woman he had loved, and it had been with such agony that John feels his stomach clench at the memory. He doesn’t want to do that again. Sherlock, however, merely nods and lets out a short, compressed breath before tilting his head to rest on John’s knee and returning his hand to the marble bag, rummaging.  

When he draws out his hand again, there is a smaller marble caught between his fingers, and John wonders how Sherlock can pluck them without looking. He reaches out and takes the new marble, holding the glass up to the rays of the setting sun. The depths flare too bright for a moment, and John has to blink and look again, but when he does, he sees that the middle of this marble is sharp, steely grey warmed into greens with a hint of hazel at the center.  

John looks puzzled, and Sherlock must be able to feel his hesitation because he stands and turns, saying exasperatedly, “That is the color of your eyes.”

“My eyes are blue,”  John replies stubbornly, but Sherlock can see something powerful building behind those very organs.

Sherlock smiles and leans down, a hand resting on either side of John’s lap, his nose nearly touching John’s.

“Only to idiots.”

**Author's Note:**

> The ficlets just keep coming. Reading back through these, I love how tame these are compared to what I was writing a year later.
> 
> All in good time.
> 
> Please comment any tw/cw tags you'd like to see applied.


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